Sunspots
by Whilom
Summary: He rolled into bed that night feeling cotton-tongued and achy, and told himself that whenever he went out in the sun he always burned. And now he had no Sam to count the freckles on his back.


_Written for prompt "Sun"for LJ community spn_30snapshots._

**Sunspots** by Whilom_  
_

"_To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." _– David Viscott

00000

His arm was curled around Sam's waist so he wouldn't fall out. Dad kept glancing over, his attention divided between the road and the four-year-old leaning out the window. But Dean was nine, nearly, and Dad trusted him for a lot of things, but mostly taking care of Sam, so that was alright. Sam's forehead was bare to the sun, his thick bangs blown back to fan over his head, and his tongue was almost to his chin, hanging out to dry in the wind.

Sam pulled his head in, knocking his elbows and knees into Dean's ribs and thighs, and he had a funny look on his face when he finally settled on the seat next to Dean.

"What is it, Sam?" he asked.

Sam's nose crinkled. "I think a bug got on my tongue. And then I swallowed."

John's laugh was slow and warm, matching the faded leather of the bench seat and the water spots on the windshield, all lit up with sunshine. Sam licked Dean's shirt to get the taste off, and Dean stretched his arm out the window, working the kinks out of the muscles and letting his hand ride the air currents.

It didn't matter what state they were in. They were in the _car_ and Dad was still laughing and Sam's feet kicked his knees whenever Sam swung his legs, and it was _perfect_.

00000

He was comfortable enough in his own skin and he didn't mind watching the girls' faces when he took his shirt off, but he was wary around the sun and stripping down for _it_. For as long as he could remember, he'd been the only one carting around a tube of sunscreen whenever a hunt meant a long day outside. Dad never used it and Sam seemed to have inherited his ability to tan because neither of them burned on the days Dean stepped outside and knew he'd be fighting a new batch of freckles and enough pink on his face to make it look like he was blushing (which was the _last_ thing any sixteen-year-old needed).

So he was hiding from the sun for good reason. Sam, on the other hand, was spinning somersaults underwater and popping up every once in a while to encourage Dean with, _Get in the water, you pansy, and quit wasting your vacation_. Except Dean preferred to sit next to the lake instead of going in it and told Sam so with a gesture that made Sam snort water up his nose and croak, "Jerk."

The poor kid looked lonely after that, floating on his back and letting the sun toast his face, so Dean got up and shucked his shirt. His belly flop was cushioned by Sam—_gee, wasn't that nice of him?_—and he didn't even think of sunscreen until that night when his skin felt stretched and tight and Sam smoothed aloe vera on his back while telling him about the new constellations he'd be carrying around until the freckles faded and were replaced next summer.

00000

He'd thought about driving to Palo Alto and surprising Sam for spring break. He'd call Sam, joke about how they needed to work on their tans, and he'd con Sam into showing him the beach (where Dean would stick out like a sore thumb in his boots and leather jacket), and then at the end he'd wave goodbye like it was a simple visit and Sam would be home for the summer in a few months.

He'd gotten so nervous about calling, though, that he'd gone to a bar for a shot or two and ended up with some platinum blonde who said she had a friend at Stanford and they were in the middle of their break already. He didn't have the heart to ask if her friend knew Sam Winchester.

He rolled into bed that night feeling cotton-tongued and achy, and told himself that whenever he went out in the sun he always burned. And now he had no Sam to count the freckles on his back.

00000

He glanced to his left, happy to let Sam drive (_just this once_), and mentally compared the tone of his arm spread over the seatback to Sam's resting on the door. The wind from the rolled down window pushed the bangs off Sam's face and Dean nearly laughed at Sam's brown nose and pale forehead. He handed his sunglasses to Sam when he started squinting.

"Stop soon?"

Sam shrugged. "It's still light out. Will be for a while."

"Let me know when you get tired, okay?"

Sam nodded and Dean tilted his head back, his jacket bunched under his neck, content. The sun in his eyes would wake him.


End file.
